


Sacrilege

by Mallaeus



Series: Mallaeus' X-Men Not-So-Cinematic Universe [3]
Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anti-Mutant Sentiments (Marvel), Body Image, Eventual Romance, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Homelessness, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Orphans, Sleeping Together, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:00:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23122129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mallaeus/pseuds/Mallaeus
Summary: Kurt was cut off by the sound of the roof giving way under Warren's feet. There was that same sound of rotten wood splintering beneath him — louder this time as it was amplified by the acoustics of the Church's architecture. There was a yelp of confusion and distress as he fell, mingled with pain as his fingers grasped against a ragged wooden beam for safety. Kurt was quick, teleporting to him, leaning over the roof, a hand outstretched to grip his wrist."Warren! Hold on! I will pull you up!"Warren is sent on a mission to locate a mutant who has been the target of an anti-mutant riot in Germany. There, he meets Kurt, and a friendship blooms between them.
Relationships: Jean Grey/Scott Summers, John Allerdyce/Bobby Drake, Kurt Wagner/Warren Worthington III
Series: Mallaeus' X-Men Not-So-Cinematic Universe [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1614586
Comments: 2
Kudos: 37





	1. Maps

**Author's Note:**

> Finally, I got it written! 
> 
> Full disclosure, the early parts of this were written at the beginning of February, and then I took a three week vacation to visit my boyfriend, and so things went on hold until last week.
> 
> But, it's all done now, and I'm proud to present the final of the trilogy, Sacrilege.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

_"Darling, I'm not sure about this. What if the news gets out? What if people find out about his… condition?"_

_"He's our son — the heir to your fortune, your company — what are we supposed to do? Have him killed?"_

_He balked, eyes widening at his wife's suggestion, "You believe that I would-"_

_"Of course I don't! But from the way you've been speaking about him, you make it sound like the only option!"_

_They stilled, aware that their voices had risen to an uncomfortable volume. She didn't need the gossiping maids to hear any more information than they had already gleaned from the blood and feathers cleared out of his room over the last few weeks. She threw a nervous glance at the man in the wheelchair, who hummed privately to himself, gazing out the window across their estate. His demeanour didn't sit right with her, not one bit. He was too calm, too accepting, too oblivious to the delicate situation into which their son had placed them._

_"Professor Xavier… could you explain this…_ school _to us, once more?"_

_The man in the chair swivelled around to face them, expression calmly blank. His voice was deep, filled with authority. It was soothing, in a way. It was the voice her husband used when he spoke with clients — the voice he used when she was pulling her hair out, unsure if their family would survive their son's selfishness. For a brief moment, she saw something in his eyes, an understanding perhaps. The flicker disappeared just as quickly, leaving room only for his voice which seemed to penetrate her mind to its core._

_"We are a school for the gifted, for those such as your son-"_

_"Mutants, you mean," her husband interrupted the other man's train of thought, voice carrying a sour note of bitterness. They had heard the news of mutants, all coming to light in the wake of the attacks on New York by the aliens, the subsequent publicity of the Avengers. They had felt isolated from those changes, protected even, until their son sprouted wings and the floor fell out from underneath them._

_"That is the commonly accepted term at the moment, yes — although I would not be surprised if in the coming years we may see a shift to something which lacks the tone of condemnation", he paused as his mind found its way back to his original thought. "My school is a place where mutants will learn to not just live with their abilities — but_ thrive _. I am not building a hideaway where we will squirrel ourselves away from the world, merely one in which we need not fear those who would attempt to control us, or to study us."_

_"Or to kill you." The sound of her own voice, interjecting into the silence, startled her. She reeled at her own words, wondering how her mind had gone to such a dark place in such a short period of time. Her fingers fidgeted with her necklace, worrying a large crystal between her slim, elegant fingers. Her husband's fist clenched and unclenched, caught between reaching for her shoulder and digging his nails into his palm._

_"Yes. There are those who see us as a plague, a punishment from God for man's decadence. All the usual sorts of bigots, we have seen it all before. We will not be frightened by those who would see us eradicated."_

_"And Warren, what exactly would he be doing at this school? Will the level of education match that of his current situation?"_

_"Of course, if not exceeding it. I have a wealth of experience as an educator. We are a school first, and a safe haven second. Warren will receive the highest standard of schooling anywhere in the country." Another pause, a wry smile, "And in any case, I fear that he may no longer_ fit in, _as it were, in his previous school."_

_Her face creased in horror at the sudden realization of a truth that each of them had been suppressing for months. How was Warren to return to school with normal children when he currently had a ten-foot wide wingspan which was only getting broader as time went on?_

_Her husband made to voice another, likely petty, concern, but was interrupted by Xavier's voice once more._

_"I would like to speak to Warren, if that is okay."_

_They glanced at one another. Her husband shrugged, and she silently cursed his inability to apprehend a situation which didn't concern himself, his business, or his money. She nodded to Xavier._

_"He's in the other room," she said, her head inclined to a large oakwood door which each had been eyeing nervously for the entire conversation — as if concerned that whatever wild, ferocious, animal contained within might escape at any moment._

_Xavier wheeled himself to the door, pausing to knock twice on the wood._

_"Warren, may I come in?"_

_A voice, muffled faintly by the thick door, pierced through the silence like an uninvited guest, "Sure."_

* * *

_Warren had observed Xavier as he made his way up the driveway. His chauffeur had been hot — some hulking youth with wild hair and big muscles that Warren would have liked to get to know a little better. The driver had hoisted Xavier, seat and all, up the stairs to the front door where he was greeted by a maid who looked like she wanted to sink into the floor. Warren had cringed at the indignity of it all. Couldn't his parents have had a ramp put down, even just for the afternoon? Evidently his father's disdain for all things common extended to his sense of decency._

_He was a strange man, all things considered. Not because he used a wheelchair — it would be rich of Warren to deride someone for an aspect of their physicality over which they had no control — rather, he carried with him an aura of intensity. His eyes were piercing, his face impassive. He spoke as if he were privy to all of Warren's thoughts, as if they were written on his face._

**_To a certain degree, they are, Warren._ **

_Warren's eyes widened. He had heard Xavier speak through the door, and so recognized his voice. How then was that voice resounding so clearly in his head, without Xavier having spoken at all?_

**_I'm a telepath. Surely you must have deduced by now? I've seen your test scores, you're no fool — despite what you may project outwardly._ **

_"So you can hear my thoughts?"_

**_Yes. We may speak out loud if it is more comfortable for you. However, if there are words you wish to remain between the two of us, I would encourage you to speak with the voice in your head._ **

**_Like this?_ **

_"Precisely."_

_A pause as Warren moved to shake Xavier's hand — at once an ingrained gesture of false politeness, as well as a silent agreement to their pact of secrecy. He was tall, Xavier noted, tall and slender, like his mother. His hair was blond, sitting in waves which crested indefinitely over his forehead. His eyes were bright, shifting in the weak sunlight which fought its way through the heavy blinds installed to protect Warren from the outer world — or vice versa._

_"I hear you're taking me off to some school for freaks like me?"_

_Xavier smiled. He remembered the brash bravado of youth, the complex emotions that arise at the cusp of adulthood. Warren was sixteen, only just barely younger than Henry who sat outside in the car, no doubt jittering with nerves. Doubt crossed Xavier's mind — the nagging question of whether this was all for nothing, if he might be better off somewhere else. Warren shifted back to the window, and it was then that Xavier noticed it. Light passed over Warren's arm as he pulled the blind aside to gaze out at his family's estate. The sunlight fell lazily down the length of his forearm, raising shadows — tiny shadows, horizontal, short, born from tiny ridges on his skin._

_Xavier swallowed, heart wrenching in his chest._

**_I'm sorry, Warren._ **

_"For what?"_

**_Your arm._ **

_A glance at the skin where his sleeve had rucked up. Embarrassed, he adjusted it, obscuring the memory of his hurt once more._

**_Oh._ **

**_Pain is nothing to be ashamed of, Warren — nor is it a remedy for whatever hurt you may be harbouring._ **

_Warren's eyes wouldn't meet Xavier's. He stared at the grass — so green it was almost artificial. He watched a bird land — hopping in that frantic, curious, way that they always did. He watched it pluck a worm from the earth, swallow it down whole._

**_And to think, those are from before I had these._ **

_Warren's hand gestured to his wings, which he flexed, almost knocking over a vase. He watched it rock precariously on its stand, face uncaring. Sixteen thousand dollars it was worth. Warren observed it casually, as if its shattering would be of no great importance to him. It settled eventually, his eyes finally returning to Xavier's._

**_Let us not add more misery to the pile then, no? I will be brief with you, Warren. You will not be able to return to normal schooling. Your life has changed entirely. It is up to you now if that change is for the better, or not._ **

_"I'll go with you. There's nothing here for me anyway."_

* * *

Warren woke to the high-pitched screech of his phone alarm. He had deliberately adjusted the tone setting to the most cacophonous, ear-splitting one he could find, in an attempt to force himself awake. His body was awake before his mind, hand shooting out to silence the phone and place it back on the nightstand, all with his eyes screwed shut. It was eleven at night, and Warren was getting ready for another night of gliding above the city, in search of a mutant believed to be in mortal danger. He had been briefed before he left the mansion, Xavier making sure he understood the delicacy of the situation, as well as the fact that this individual might not be the friendliest, given their circumstances.

Hank had come across the mutant during the team's observation of an anti-mutant rally which had taken place in Munich. Warren, being the only member of the team whose physical manifestations could not be turned on and off at a moment's notice, felt his skin crawl at the sight of their twisted faces, enraged that they had to share their streets with some untranslated German neologism that he was sure couldn't have been pleasant. The rally — well on its way to become a riot — was interrupted before things could escalate. Black smoke began to appear in short bursts, dotted around the crowd, seemingly at random. The news had characterized it as the police attempting to disperse the crowd, but that explanation hadn't exactly meshed with the police's complete nonchalance at the violent hatred which had already set the tone of the rally thus far. Other sources promoted — with an unmistakably venomous intent — that it was pro-mutant groups, seeking to further degenerate humanity by blah blah blah. Warren had left at that point, unwilling to stomach more bile.

In the interim, he had missed Hank's observation — that it was in fact another mutant who seemed to be generating the smoke. This individual appeared in one frame at one location, only to reappear in the center of another cloud of smoke, several feet away, in the next. 

"A teleporter? But why the smoke?" Bobby had asked, face perturbed at what he perceived as an inconsistency. Hank gestured to a diagram he had drawn — a rudimentary hypothesis already drafted. He had drawn two circles which touched but did not intersect, a line drawn neatly between them.

"If you observe," he explained, finger pointing in the center of the left circle, "Our universe. And this," his finger shifts to the opposite side, "is another world, parallel to our own. My theory — mere speculation at this point, you understand — is that our mutant friend is able to transition between these two worlds. In doing so, they open a rift — a mere split second in time — travelling between this world and our own. I hypothesize that as part of this process, our worlds bleed together for a moment, causing the materialization of this this smoke — likely some rudimentary atmosphere or stable compound which is in abundance in that world . I would also propose that this world may indeed be of a certain degree smaller than our own — a micro-universe, if we may believe such a thing."

The rest of the team — including John, who had been sitting in the empty classroom attempting to write new test questions for his frighteningly studious students before he was imposed upon — stared at Hank blankly. 

"I apologise, I may have rambled somewhat."

Scott spoke, "Okay, Hank, thanks for the theory. What does that mean for our approach? I don't think our usual methods are going to be effective here."

Bobby remained confused, brow only furrowing further as Hank had spoken. John had reached out to pat his shoulder at one point, taking pity on him.

"It's okay, baby. Just let the others talk, they'll fill you in."

"I think if we approach this mutant the way we normally do, they're gonna book it as soon as they see us coming. We have no idea what sort of life they're living, what sort of abuse they've endured." Ororo's voice was commanding and compassionate all at once, shredding the impersonality which threatened to color their conversations surrounding other mutants — other people.

Jean nodded, "She's right. We need to be delicate about this. We should send in one of the team, have them try and find a rapport, some common ground. Speak to them, let them know they're safe, that they have a home here, if they want it."

Piotr hummed, jolting John, whom he stood directly behind and who somehow hadn't heard him come in.

"How are you so quiet? Wear a bell, for Christ's sake!"

"Apologies, John, I will consider it." He returned his gaze to Scott, arms folded, "Our planning is all good, yes, but we must locate our new friend before we are going to be able to induct them into our group."

And so they had. They had knowledge of the general location of the mutant, gleaned from a combination of news reports of bizarre robberies involving clouds of black smoke, as well as Xavier and Jean's efforts with Cerebro. It appeared that their constant shifting between dimensions disrupted telepathy to some extent, making a sure hold on their location impossible to grasp. They had narrowed it down, through their combined efforts, to a district of Munich — an area of the city which previously served as a Jewish ghetto during the second world war, a fact which hadn't escaped Piotr's notice.

"That does not surprise me. I fear our friend may have experienced that same species of hate, if expressed differently, perhaps." His voice was solemn, eyes distant, focused on some abstract memory that seemed to hover around him. He took a deep breath, expanding to fill the silence he had created, and returned his regard to the others. "I am sorry."

Ororo reached to him, fingers grazing his arm. Their eyes met, and he nodded, a silent exchange held between them.

Scott cleared his throat, "Okay. So we need someone to do recon in Munich, see if we can find this person before the public do. Any volunteers?"

"I'll do it." The group's eyes shot to Warren, who had reappeared, having cleared his mind of his disturbed thoughts. 

Scott was taken aback, "Are you… You really want to?"

Warren's voice was quiet, mind clearly elsewhere, "Yeah. It's not anything weird, I just want to help this person. Nobody should have to feel like that."

Scott nodded, still clearly surprised at Warren's selflessness, "Okay. Good. That's settled so. We can get you on the jet tonight and start our search tomorrow."

And that had been that. Warren was shipped off to Germany overnight on the jet, a vacant apartment in the city waiting for him as a base of operations. He patrolled during the night, when a flying twenty-something wasn't quite as visible as in the daylight. Eight hour shifts, sweeping over the city, updates provided by Cerebro's AI in his ear. It scanned news reports, police scanners, and CCTV across the city, on the lookout for patterns which resembled those of the errant mutant. Warren hadn't had much luck so far, each night returning not even so much as a clue to the teleporter's location. He supposed quietly that that was the point of teleportation — to be able to escape notice. He didn't mind all that much. It was meditative, in a way, just flying aimlessly. 

Warren loved flying at night. Wings illuminated softly by the moon and stars above him. The sky wheeled as he swept across roofs, dipped to avoid cranes and rose above church spires. 

It was freeing. He liked it.

* * *

_His life was full of light, before. Bright, almost such that it might encompass his entire world. It was color in its purest form, the platonic ideal. His mother was blue — the sky, the sea, the first flowers of spring which burst through the ground when the storm has passed. His father was brown — earth and wood. They lived together in a world of color, theirs the only light for miles around in those dark, winter nights. The circus was always in town, forever providing joy to the residents during those long hours where the day seemed to be a stranger, ever elusive._

_Then he changed._

_It was subtle at first, a patch so small it could have been a bruise — an accident during training for the trapeze, pain forgotten as quickly as it may have appeared. A bruise which refused to dissipate after a few days. Days which became weeks. Then the second appeared, along with a quiet conversation about safety which grew increasingly frantic after he left the room._

_"You said this wouldn't happen! You said that it would not manifest, that it would skip his generation!"_

_"I did not know, Maria! How could I? How could any of us?"_

_She reeled from his words as if from a blow, hand flattening against her forehead to draw the tension out of her mind. His hands found her shoulders, clutching her to him, head under his chin._

_"We have hidden for so long, Henrik. We were lucky. How will he fare? How will our son survive?" Her voice shook with the admission, hands shaking as they clutched her husband's shirt. They trembled together under the bare bulb of their kitchen, the unanswered question hovering amidst them._

_His trajectory from then on had seemed obvious, in hindsight. To pretend, for a while, was simple. Stage makeup, a new character — The Daring Devil, Nightcrawler! As his skin shifted further, as his nails became talons, as his hair — once a vibrant red, a rusted flame among the bright lights of the big top — took on the colour of charcoal, then it became obvious that it would stand no longer. Their ruse was undone by one of the other performers — a man who they believed could be trusted, who had known their son since he was a baby. It was a different time, there were no pro-mutant groups then. They were told, "We cannot have mutants in our show, the public will not have it."_

_Sink, or jettison your cargo._

_They sunk._

_If the circus would not accept their son — and themselves, by extension, even if their abilities did not mark their skin — they would leave. They relocated to a cheaper part of the city, a former ghetto, and scraped by as they could. It wasn't a joyful existence, but their spirits refused to crack under the weight of life._

_It was a cold evening in the spring when his mother died. The cancer had come on quickly, too quickly to treat with any efficacy. They watched as she weakened, watched as the color leached from her skin, from their lives._

_His father hadn't lasted much longer. Grief drove his mind away, leaving a blank slate behind. He stilled, body molding itself to their meagre furnishings, before finally slipping away entirely._

_Kurt was alone, then. His sun had set, bringing forth a night which seemed never to end._

He had been observing the flying man for a week now. He flew a similar circuit each night, following some internal map that Kurt had yet to discern. Occasionally he would turn suddenly, swoop down to land on a roof, or in an alleyway, speaking gently in English. Soothing words — declarations of his benevolence, claims that he was here to help. Kurt watched him then, from some hidden alcove, his diversions enough to let him get a good look at the man's face.

Kurt would have approached him — even just to scare him away — but he was busy. His home — a vacant house in a run down neighborhood which appeared to have been left to rot by the municipal council — had been ransacked, the usual graffiti left behind. 

**GET OUT, MUTANT**

**MONSTER**

**DIE MUTANT SCUM**

Nothing Kurt hadn't seen before, nothing that hadn't already been hurled at him from mouths twisted into snarls.

He sought refuge in a Church — Catholic, which ran counter to his Jewish heritage. Forever in the wrong place. It was dilapidated, much like every other building in the area, but it was home. 

For now.

It was just past midnight when the man landed on the roof of the church where Kurt sat, treating himself to an apple — bright green and sour. He was resting, it had been a particularly long day. A life on the run never got any easier. His concentration, his near constant vigilance of his surroundings, had lapsed in that moment as he let his mind wander up to the stars that poked through the broken patches of cloud cover above the city. So distracted as he was, he failed to notice the winged man land on the roof, a few feet away from where Kurt sat on the edge.

"Please don't run from me," spoken in a voice carefully engineered to be as non-threatening as possible, "I've been looking for you. I'm here to help."

Kurt startled, but he managed to keep his reflexive urge to teleport away under control. He turned his head to regard the interloper, expression uneasy. His wings were huge, reaching out at his sides in a grand display of long, white feathers.

"Do you speak English?" The man's voice was hopeful, eyes searching Kurt's face any indication of his thoughts. Kurt was struck by the thought that perhaps he might not be very good at interacting with others. That would make two of them, certainly.

"I do, quite well, actually."

The man visibly relaxed at his reply. His wings, previously spread to their full extent — perhaps in some vulgar attempt at intimidation — folded in behind his back. His arms crossed across his chest, toe worrying a loose shingle. He couldn't meet Kurt's eyes.

"That's good. Yeah… good, good. Okay."

"Why are you here?"

His reply was nervous, choppy. It was as if he had memorized a script in advance of that night, forgetting his lines as soon as it was time to perform.

"Oh. To uh… help. I'm here to help."

"I see."

"Yeah. We saw the video of that… rally the other day. Saw you. Pretty neat trick there with your smoke, huh?"

Kurt flashed him a smile, teeth shining a white sliver of moonlight in the night sky of his face. Warren pulled his face into a smile in reply, lips drawn tight against his mouth.

"Thank you. I thought it was very effective."

"Yeah. My friend's got a whole theory about your powers. Maybe he can tell you some day."

"I would be interested to hear that." Kurt paused for a moment in an attempt to phrase himself carefully. "You say you are here to help. What is it that you are offering?"

A deep, shaky inhale.

"Safety. A home."

"I see."

Silence for a moment. Warren shifted his weight onto his other leg, waiting for Kurt to speak again. The roof under them groaned in response, rotten wood creaking dangerously. He eased off to another, sturdier part, Kurt's eyes on him the entire time.

"I would like to think about it, for a while. Would that be okay?"

"It's up to you. I'm not here to force you into something. We were just concerned about your safety here."

"Yes. It is not safe for those of us who do not look as the others do." 

Another pause, as Kurt watched Warren wrestle with some hidden hurt. He moved to speak, then hesitated, rethinking. He coughed once, clearing the previous words from his throat to make room for others.

"Believe me, I know."

"I suppose you do."

They were quiet then. Warren itched a spot on his shoulder, underneath his suit. Kurt watched him, fascinated. His eyes followed the movement of his hand — slender, with long fingers and neatly trimmed nails. They came to rest on the skin of his shoulder, exposed as Warren pulled back the material of his suit. His reverie was interrupted by Warren's voice, interjecting once more into the vacuum of silence. Clearly, he couldn't stand the sound of his own thoughts for too long.

"What's your name?"

"Kurt. Kurt Wagner."

A hand thrust between them in invitation. Kurt balked for a moment. His hand was even more perfect up close. He wondered quietly if he had ever modelled jewellery. Kurt's own hands — and his feet — had been changed by his mutation. His fingers had fused, leaving him with three digits, ending in black nails, which he kept pointed for self defense and easy preparation of food. He sighed internally, and reached for Warren's hand. He waited for the recoil that never came, waited for the flash of disgust to pass across his features. But his face remained placid, untroubled.

"Warren, Worthington. The third."

Kurt shook his hand, meeting his eyes for a fleeting moment. They were bright green — not the Nazi propaganda blue that would have matched his hair color and physique. It was not in Kurt's nature to judge individuals by their appearance, but he would privately admit to some trepidation at his first sight of Warren. For a brief moment, his worst nightmares had been realized. Visions of camps, of experiments, of torture beyond human conception crossed his mind. But as Warren had spoken, that fear had left him, replaced by a buzzing in his ears, a tightness in his chest. 

He took a deep breath, willing his mind to change the subject. Warren's name rang a bell in his mind, calling up the image of a billboard he had seen once while scavenging in a dump. Brightly illuminated against that grey dawn sky, it had advertised an anti-ageing cream of some description. Kurt hadn't paid it much attention at the time, concerned more by his immediate need for food than some lofty goal of outwardly eternal youth.

"That is an interesting name. I believe I know your father's company. They make pharmaceuticals, yes?"

"Something like that. I'm not exactly on the Christmas card rotation anymore."

Something in Warren's tone betrayed that hidden hurt once more. His arms folded across his chest, as if to shield his heart.

"Your mutation?"

"Well, that didn't help."

"I see."

Warren didn't seem to be willing to offer any more information about himself, and so Kurt didn't press him. He spoke quickly to fill the silence, returning once more to the less treacherous waters of his mission.

"So. You need time. I don't wanna press you, obviously, but I gotta report back to my team, and stuff so…"

"Oh. I would like to find out about you and your team before I make any decisions."

"Well, we can talk about that now, if you'd like?"

Kurt shrugged, gesturing to an empty space on the roof next to him. Warren hesitated for a moment, perhaps unsure if Kurt was going to try to push him off, or something. It took him longer than he'd care to admit to remember that he could fly, and that being pushed off of a building wasn't something which posed an incredible threat to his life. He sat, Kurt passing him another apple from his pack. 

"Are you sure?"

"I am homeless, I am not a miser. There will be more apples."

Warren continued to look uneasy, but he took the apple all the same. Their feet hung over the edge of the roof, swinging gently. Kurt felt it then, a disturbance in his mind — a great stone falling from a height into a pool of water. The air between them felt electric. Kurt eyed him sidelong, watching his jaw tear into the apple. His teeth were blue-white, clearly the result of expensive dentistry. He watched his lips pass over the skin of the apple, watched juice collect between them, swiped away by the tip of his tongue. Kurt's mouth went dry, a sliver of his own apple caught in his throat. He coughed to dislodge it, Warren finally speaking once he had finished.

"So, what do you wanna know?"

"Who are you, your team?"

"We're called the X-Men. We're all mutants. We fight bad guys."

"Bad guys?"

"Yeah. We're kinda like the Avengers. You guys know about them over here?"

Kurt had seen the battle of New York on the television. He had marvelled at the sight of the team fighting on the screen. That man, the Captain, reminded Kurt of Warren, now that he thought about it. He wondered if Warren was the captain of his team also.

"We are aware, yes."

"Same idea. But we got a school too, for younger kids."

"I see. And are you a teacher here?"

Warren grinned, a hand scratching at the back of his head.

"Yeah. Kinda. I'm not very good at it, I don't think."

"Do the children like you?"

"I think so. I'm not much of a disciplinarian."

"I am not surprised."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Kurt wasn't sure what it was supposed to mean, but it had felt right to say. He laughed gently, eyes on the horizon, "It was a joke, my friend."

"Oh, so we're friends now?" Warren's tone joined him in levity, and he was surprised at how easily that frightened distance had closed between them.

"Is that a problem?"

"Nah. I'm everyone's friend."

"Hmmm. I think that may mean something different than you think, in Europe."

A wink, a pearl-white grin, "I know what I said."

"You are a funny man."

"Thanks, it's a coping mechanism."

Warren's pocket beeped. He removed his phone, glancing at the screen for a brief moment before replacing it. 

"My shift is over."

"I did not know superheroes worked in shifts."

"If you complain enough, you can do anything."

"I see."

"Yeah. So… I gotta go, for tonight. I'll be back tomorrow. Same time, same place?"

Kurt nodded, eyes heavy and smile pleasant, "That will work. I will make my decision before then."

Warren nodded. His head tilted to the side, regarding Kurt with a smile on his face.

"What do myodds look like at the moment?"

"They are favourable."

Warren chuckled, moving to stand, "I'll see you tomorrow."

Warren leapt suddenly from the roof in a flutter of feathers and a gust of wind. Kurt watched him fly away, intrigued. He wondered if the pit in his stomach was excitement, or dread.

Something to discover for tomorrow.

* * *

_"How'd it go today, Warren?"_

"Good, actually. I found our guy."

_"Really? That's good news! What are they like?"_

"He's blue, for one. Claws, tail. Three digits on the hand."

_"Right. That'll explain why he has so much trouble with the public."_

"Yeah."

_"And what did he say about joining us?"_

"Needs time to think about it. I'm going to meet him tomorrow night, he said he'd be decided by then."

_"What if he doesn't show? What if he runs?"_

"Nothing we can do then, is there?"

_"I guess, yeah. Anything else you think we should know before we pick you up?"_

"Don't think so. I'm gonna hit the hay. I'll text you when I wake up."

_"Alright Warren, thanks. You did well, hopefully we can help him."_

"Yeah, hope so. See you, Scott."

Warren hefted himself onto his mattress in a whoosh of starched dust, lifting off the white linens like spores. The room was cheap, the sheets even cheaper. Warren, generally, was used to a higher standard of living. Growing up with money — especially the absolutely incomprehensible amount that resided in the Worthington bank accounts, scattered across the globe — skewed your vision of the world. Warren was the second of the team to be inducted, and his experience of meeting his fellow X-Men had been eye-opening. Hank's childhood had been fragmented by constant moving around, another victim of the foster care system — another child fallen through the cracks. Hank was a certified genius, and had been since a young age, but his potential had been blocked by his circumstances. He had joined Xavier six months before Warren, and in that short time had already improved upon the mansion's security systems — including a prototype for a robotic gardener who could serve as an armed sentry if needed. It was astounding.

Peter grew up dirt poor in Russia, and Warren was often struck by how grateful he was for everything. He never let food go to waste, he never failed to pull his weight in chores. Pete lived every day as if abundance was merely a temporary state of being, aware that the proverbial rug could be pulled out from under him in an instant.

Being on the team had changed Warren. Hearing his friends' stories, learning their hurts, had expanded his narrow point of view from its once solipsistic state. He still had odd attitudes towards money and spending — often covering everyone's tabs at whatever bar they were at just because he could. Warren didn't go out with them ever, unwilling to deal with the fearful and resentful glances from the un-winged public, and so preferred to listen to the gossip afterwards. 

But, as dire as his friends' circumstances may have once been, they still had a home, had jobs under Xavier. They had a family. Warren wasn't exactly privy to the chain of events that would lead to someone becoming homeless, but he suspected that Kurt's family must be out of the picture in one way or another. 

He made a note to text Ororo in the morning. She always knew what to say to make people feel better. He hoped she would be able to explain to him how to make Kurt feel safe, to let him know that Warren was here to take him out of precarity. At the same time however, he had been struck by Kurt's apparent contentedness with his situation. He didn't have the stoop to his shoulders that Warren associated with the perpetually downtrodden. He had sat proudly, surveying the city that he called home as if he were a lord surveying his estate. Kurt wasn't a creature who invited pity, and Warren respected that. 

He shifted, a wing fluttering involuntarily as he stretched, making himself comfortable on his lumpy mattress. As he drifted off, he thought of Kurt, silently praying that he would show tomorrow.

* * *

Kurt arrived at the church roof just before sunset. He laid on the tiles, keeping his head tilted to one side to regard the sky as it slowly shifted to resemble his own skin. It was a process which fascinated him often — the peachy tones of oranges, reds and pinks shifting and darkening to a midnight blue, flecked with stars. 

He felt himself drifting off, the night wind just cool enough to calm him without making him uncomfortable. There was a quiet rustle of feathers behind him, followed by the gentle thud of another body on the roof.

"Hey, wasn't sure if you'd show or not."

"You thought that I would lie to you? I must say, Warren, you offered me a home, and the safety it provides. I do not understand why I would pass that up!" He chuckled easily, motioning with his hand for Warren to sit. A patch of the roof groaned in pain as he passed over it, the sound of rotten wood splintering mingling with the rustle of his wings against his clothes. He had left his costume at the apartment, opting instead for a simple t-shirt and jeans. Kurt regarded him silently as he sat, wondering privately how much the faux-Grecian pattern along the trim of the shirt had pushed up the price.

"See something you like?"

"I am wondering how much was the cost of your shirt?"

Warren glanced down at his shirt, as if seeing it for the first time. He fingered the neckline, shifting to an uneasy scratching at the skin of his chin, suddenly uncomfortable at the wealth disparity between the two of them.

"Uhh… I'd say it was probably about three fifty, dollars."

"Wow."

"Yeah. Sorry."

"What for?"

"I don't know. It felt right to say. I'm not good at this."

"At what?"

"Talking to other people. Well… more like _listening_ to other people when they talk to me." A pause as Kurt regarded him, clearly waiting for him to continue his train of thought. "And you know… I'm rich and you're… _not._ I feel shitty, sitting here, in my stupid shirt and jeans that are too expensive and you don't even have a roof under your head!" Warren stood suddenly, incensed at the unfairness of the universe, "And your family is gone and so is mine but they're not really and it's not fair, you know?"

Warren stomped across the tiles, as if to walk away from his own thoughts. Kurt watched after him, body relaxed as he awaited the storm to clear.

"You do not control my circumstances, Warren, nor your own. It would be silly to-"

Kurt was cut off by the sound of the roof giving way under Warren's feet. There was that same sound of rotten wood splintering beneath him — louder this time as it was amplified by the acoustics of the Church's architecture. There was a yelp of confusion and distress as he fell, mingled with pain as his fingers grasped against a ragged wooden beam for safety. Kurt was quick, teleporting to him, leaning over the roof, a hand outstretched to grip his wrist.

"Warren! Hold on! I will pull you up!"

"My wing! I hurt it! I can't fly!"

Kurt heaved as Warren scrambled his legs for purchase against empty air, desperate to pull himself out of the ragged hole in the church's ceiling. Warren wasn't heavy, but he was still beyond Kurt's strength, he strained his body, feet pressed into the tiles as he braced himself. His efforts placed even further strain on the worn structure, as it cracked and moaned beneath him.

In another instant, the roof gave way under Kurt, and he and Warren tumbled into darkness. Kurt's concentration was limited by the speed of his fall, by the darkness and noise and the dust-filled air that threatened to close his throat around itself. In a moment he was falling, and in the next he reappeared, crashing bruised but safe onto a piece of scaffolding. Warren was not so lucky. He crashed off several pieces of the same scaffolding that saved Kurt, hitting at odd angles that twisted his body in the air as he slammed limply into them. He fell to a stop with a blessed thud — not the sickening snap of shattered bones — Kurt's meagre mattress and bedding having finally broken his fall. Kurt prayed silently to God for forgiveness, for Warren's safety, and made his way to his now-lifeless body. Where just a moment ago the church had echoed with the roar of destruction, it was now filled completely with silence, the irregular sound of Kurt's teleportation the only disturbance.

He crouched by Warren's prone form, inspecting the damage to his body. His wings sat at disturbing angles, arms and legs twisted limply under him. Kurt's hands shook, hovering just above Warren's skin, unsure what he should do. 

"I must move him, he cannot lie like this," he whispered, voice amplified by the church's acoustics. He began the process of righting Warren's body, shifting him as gently as possible into a lying position on the mattress. 

It was then that the miracle began.

Warren's skin appeared to shine in the meagre light of the altar, moonlight filtered through a broken panel in the stained glass window behind them. Tiny hairs raised across his flesh, as if straining towards the sky, towards Kurt's bewildered face as he gazed down upon whatever silent process was occurring under the surface. Warren's breaths were slow, face surprisingly serene despite his injuries. 

Kurt moved closer on his hands and knees, claws unconsciously running through Warren's hair in some primal gesture of comfort. As his eyes tracked across his face, it became evident that the golden tint to his skin was coming from within his body. It was muted — a sunset from behind a rain cloud — but it was there. Beneath it was a creaking, a groaning. Warren's bones were shifting of their own accord, righting themselves from their twisted positions. There was no snapping, no urgency, merely a quiet creaking as breaks became fractures became whole once more. Warren's face and arms had been lacerated in the fall and had been steadily bleeding as he lay, staining his clothes and Kurt's bedding. Kurt watched as they closed themselves, blood seeping under the skin once more as if pulled by an invisible force. 

Warren was healing himself.

Eventually Warren's body stilled, visible injuries disappeared beneath his now-unscarred skin. His breathing returned to a rest, rising and falling gently as if he were merely asleep and not in a coma induced by a life-threatening injury which would have killed anyone else. His clothes were destroyed, covered in blood, tears and detritus from his fall. Kurt could not leave him to lie in them. They would make him sick, surely? At the very least, they would be uncomfortable. At the same time, he didn't have any clothes to spare, which Warren could rest in while he recovered. Surely he would not mind being nude? His bed covers would be enough, yes, they would be enough.

His hands twitched minutely, caught in the movement to begin stripping Warren. He was hesitating. Why? They were two men, yes, but it was not something… _intimate._ It was a strange, sudden circumstance, that was it. Then why was it so difficult?

Before Kurt could continue his tortured internal dialogue, Warren's eyes fluttered open.

"Would you mind helping me out of my clothes? I don't wanna sleep in this shit."

His voice was ragged, internal injuries clearly not having healed just yet.

Kurt stammered, nodding nervously, "Y-y-es! I can. Are you feeling okay to move a little?"

"Yeah, I'll be okay, just don't wanna bend right now."

Kurt nodded, more solidly this time, and moved to remove Warren's shirt. It came off simply, having been altered to accommodate his wings. A strip of Velcro ran across his spine allowing the shirt to bypass where his wing bones protruded through two specially made holes, around the area of his shoulder blades. Warren's skin was pale beneath it, which was a positive sign. Bruising meant bleeding under the skin and Kurt wasn't sure that internal injuries were within his purview. 

"Should I… remove your jeans also?"

Warren smiled a toothed grin, the stark white of American dentistry, and winked at him.

"If it's not too much trouble."

Kurt nodded once more, and swallowed. His fingers unbuttoned the jeans easily, his fumbling forgotten in favour of quick movements — all the better to get things over with as soon as possible. He slid them off, Warren wincing as Kurt levered him up slightly to pull them off his legs.

"I am sorry."

"It's okay. My own stupid fault."

"Shall I leave you to rest?"

"I guess."

Silence for a moment, awkward.

"Okay."

"You're not gonna ask me how I'm not dead?"

"It did not seem polite."

Warren chuckled, wincing again as pain shot through his left side.

"Tell me, then."

"Well," he said, pausing to build tension. Kurt leaned closer to him in the candlelit twilight. "I don't know." He barked a laugh again at Kurt's put-out expression.

"Are your friends capable of such feats also?"

"Depends how you define it, I guess. None of them heal like me — not with all the golden lights and halos, at least — but they're pretty spectacular."

"You may tell me in the morning, after you sleep."

Kurt made to raise himself from his position crouched at the mattress, but Warren reached to halt him.

"I'm not gonna kick you off your own bed, man. You're homeless, what kinda asshole would I be to do that? Lay down here with me, there's room."

"I-"

"Look. I know you're probably gonna be uncomfortable, but it'll be fine. I'm not gonna make a move or something." A pause, a silent wink, "Unless you want me to."

"Th-that is quite alright, Warren."

"I'm sorry, I'm just joking around. Please, lay down."

Kurt did as he was asked, Warren shifting sideways to accommodate him. His wing shifted, Warren pillowing it under his head.

"So, tell me. What do you want to know?"

"What powers do your friends possess?"

"All kinds. Jean can read minds and move stuff without touching it, Scott shoots lasers from his eyes, Pete can turn his body to metal and back again. Kyle runs super fast. And Bobby, he makes ice."

"Interesting."

"Yeah, and Bobby's boyfriend makes fire too. It's just like TV, you know, fire and ice!" a pause as Warren laughs, the sound interrupted as he realized his mistake. "Oh… or… Oh! He doesn't _make_ fire, he just controls it. Or something. I don't get it."

"I see. That sounds very complicated."

"It is. Everyone's fuckin' one another all the time, it's so stupid"

"Does that not interfere with your operations?"

"Here and there someone will get a little defensive when their special little pal gets too hard of a knock from some bad guy, but for the most part it's okay. We're professionals."

Kurt continued to ask him about his life — the team, the mansion, his family, his history. Warren gave answers easily — he loved to talk about himself. Kurt listened all the while, expression unchanging from its quiet interest. They passed time well into the night, hushed voices amplified across the empty aisles and pews. Warren was in the middle of the story of how the team had met Storm when he noticed that Kurt had fallen asleep against him.

He chuckled lightly to himself, careful not to disturb his new friend. Kurt looked serene in the soft glow of the candlelight, and Warren felt that familiar fluttering in his chest that usually accompanied a new infatuation. His smile widened in quiet disbelief at his own feelings.

"Well, would you look at that," he said, voice a whisper. He settled on top of the mattress, shuffling Kurt closer to him. Something to be explained in the morning, a sleepy misunderstanding. A little closeness couldn't hurt, Kurt had been alone for a long time.


	2. Date With The Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kurt joins the X-Men.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two, as promised!
> 
> I'm still iffy on the rating (Explicit vs Mature) because, as with all my sex scenes, there's no anatomical nouns, for the most part. Let me know in the comments if you think I could drop it down to Mature.
> 
> Otherwise, hope you enjoy.

"God, he works quickly, huh?"

"Jesus Christ, no wonder it was taking him so long."

Warren looked up from the mattress, raising his head to meet his team's eyes.

"Would you all please stop talking about me like I'm not here? This isn't what it looks like, for once."

Kurt had awoken by that point, and groggily raised himself to regard the intruders into his domain. 

"Yes, as far as I am aware, this is not what you may think it is. Warren took quite the fall last night," he said, gesturing to the hole in the ceiling, occluded sunlight now streaming in from the overcast sky. 

"Are you okay?" Scott asked, arms folded.

"I'm fine," he replied, raising himself to stand. His friends made a show of disapproval, groaning at his almost-nudity. "Relax, oh my god, it's not like you can see anything. Kurt, where did you put my clothes?"

Kurt handed the pile to him, having folded them neatly and placed them off to the side of the altar, which Warren stepped behind to dress. While he was occupied, Jean stepped forward to greet Kurt, hand out in invitation.

"Hi, Kurt, it's nice to meet you. I'm Jean."

He shook her hand, smile warm.

"It is nice to meet you also, Jean. Warren has told me much about you, that you can read minds."

**_Yup. Just like this._ **

"Ah, that is very strange, but intriguing."

**_You can talk to me like this. Go on, try._ **

**_Like this?_ **

**_Exactly._ **

"That is interesting, but I think I prefer to use my voice, if that is okay."

"Of course."

Warren had dressed by that point, and made his way to Kurt's side. His hand found his shoulder, squeezing once.

"You still wanna come with us?"

"I will. I think I am better off with you and your team than here among the rats and dust."

As the X-Men's jet broke through the clouds above Munich, Kurt looked down upon the city of his birth, the city his family had lived in since before the War. He watched the spires of the churches and the roofs of the houses grow smaller as they rose, all the while feeling some unnameable sadness gnawing at his soul. One of the team — a blond man, younger than he and Warren, placed a hand gently on his knee. He leaned into him, speaking softly.

"Leavin' home was hard for me too, it's okay. What are you leaving behind?"

"Memories, mostly. The ghosts of my parents. The faces of those who didn't care to see my own walk among them."

"Do you think you'll miss it?"

"I think I will miss the city in its physicality, if not in what it represents in my memory. The streets were my home, for better or for worse. I found solace in those spaces, in the back alleys and side streets and concrete alcoves. I existed in the in-between, you understand."

"Course I do. We're all livin' in the in-between, whether we got homes or not. That's why we're all here, together. We're a family."

"I hope that I can become a part of that family as well."

"You already are."

"What is your name, my friend? I should begin there, should I not?"

"I'm Kyle," he replied, yet another hand thrust before him in greeting, "it's good to meet you finally."

"It is good to meet you, Kyle. I am Kurt."

Warren watched them from across the jet, eyes quietly fixed on Kurt's face as he and Kyle spoke. 

**_Why are you looking at him like that?_ **

**_Leave me alone, Jean._ **

**_Come on, Warren. I don't have to be a telepath to see what's going on here._ **

Jean had never heard someone sigh in their mind before, but Warren managed to do it somehow.

**_Jean, please. Don't make this into something._ **

**_Hey, I'm not. I'm just-_ **

**_You're just being nosy._ **

**_Warren._ **

**Jean.**

**_I'm not judging you, Warren. If you like him, talk to him._ **

**_I_ ** **know** **_, Jean, I'm well aware of how dating works. My issue is that he's a formerly-homeless, possibly-religious victim of anti-mutant abuse. I'm not exactly sure that he's going to be open to a relationship at the moment._ **

**_Look at you, caring about someone else. What happened, Warren?_ **

**_I know, Jean, I'm not used to it either. Also also, I don't even know if he goes like that._ **

**_I wouldn't worry about that, Warren._ **

**_I thought you didn't read people's minds without permission?_ **

**_I didn't. Look at his face as he talks to Kyle._ **

Warren's eyes flitted to Kurt's face as he leaned in, still speaking quietly with Kyle. Kyle looked as he always did, uninterested with anyone who wasn't over six feet tall, made of metal and named Piotr, chatting with Kurt with easy smiles and laughter. Kurt, on the other hand, couldn't look away from his mouth. Warren watched him watching Kyle's lips move, watching his hands brush his hair out of his eyes. His body leaned towards Kyle in his seat, one hand supporting his head, a single black nail worrying his bottom lip. Warren wondered if he was even listening to what Kyle was saying.

**_Maybe he has a thing for blond hair._ **

**_That would include you, Warren._ **

**_I know._ **

From across the jet, Jean shrugged theatrically at him, palms to the ceiling. Warren felt his tongue run across the front of his teeth, felt his thoughts drift somewhere else. Absently, he thought that it would be preferable for him to dump the boy he had been leading on. Better to do it now than keep him on the leash for another month or so. He didn't even like Warren, that much was obvious. He was just chasing the Worthington fortune. Little did he know, Warren subsisted entirely on some shrewd investments he had made with the money in his account at the moment his parents cut him off — all with Hank's help, of course. Warren had been out of the will for years, ever since the day one of the maids had walked in on him in bed with one of the gardeners.

Part of him wondered what it would be like to be with Kurt — to be with someone who seemed not to concern himself with money. Although, how could you tell? How could you fixate on money when you didn't have any?

He stole a final glance at Kurt — still enraptured by Kyle — and sighed, finding somewhere to sit while Scott and Jean brought the jet down.

* * *

"Warren, do you know if our friend Kyle is single?"

Warren's eyes found Kurt's above the rim of his coffee mug, blue meeting yellow obscured by steam. 

"He is. But I don't recommend trying anything."

"Why is that? Do you think he is not interested in me? Is it my appearance?"

"Nothing quite so vulgar, Kurt."

"Then what?"

"It's a long story. Personal. I don't know that I should tell you without his permission."

"Oh. I see. I am sorry, I will leave him be."

"Hey, look, don't be down on yourself. It's not you, or anything. He's just…" Warren sighed deeply, placing his mug on the counter. He sat by Kurt on one of the stools, eyes on his fingers as they fidgeted on the marble top. "Kyle's in love with someone else. He doesn't really date, because of it."

"Is it one of the others in the house?"

"Yeah."

"It's not Bobby, is it?"

"No! Not at all. God no, ew. It's uh…"

"It is Piotr." A statement, not a question.

"How could you tell?"

"He was the only member of the household that made sense. He is a nice man."

"He's more than nice, Kurt, he's built for sex. Good god he looks like he was made in a factory."

"One does not fall in love with someone based purely on sex, Warren."

"Says you. You should meet some of my exes."

"I am sure that would be interesting. And is there anyone that you are fond of at the moment? In or out of this house, of course."

"Nosy, aren't you?"

A sly grin as Kurt laid his head on his arm, gazing up at Warren through his eyelashes.

"I will admit to a certain degree of nosiness, yes. There are so many of you in this house, and so many complicated relationships and threads tying you all together." Kurt's smile faltered slightly, some quiet sadness seeping in behind the shine in his eyes, "I think often that if I were able to map these relations in my mind, that I may sooner become a member of this family that you all have created."

"Kurt, what are you talking about? You're already one of us. You and Hank hang out every other day, and Jean talks to you so much I keep thinking Scott is gonna break into your room and night and smother you."

"I suppose that maybe the problem is that you all have so much history together, and that I feel like I am apart from that."

"Well… yeah… but it takes time, you know? You'll build those memories with us too, but you've only been here a month. Just let it happen, don't worry about it."

"I will try," a self-conscious laugh escaping as Warren clapped him on the back.

"C'mon, I've got somewhere to take you, Hank told me he's been working on a surprise for you, and it's ready today."

Warren led him down one of the mansion's various hallways to Hank's laboratory, down several flights of stairs and through a dark, oakwood passage which opened up into a white, sterile environment, not unlike the images and videos he had seen of Stark Industries on the television and in the news. The laboratory was crowded with tables, Hank's dominating form at the center of it all. Clutter filled every inch of the space, covering the tables, and materializing around their feet whenever they attempted a step closer. 

"Hank? We're here." Warren's voice was tentative, unsure whether or not Hank had even noticed their entering, so absorbed as he was by his work. He looked up suddenly, as if startled by their sudden manifestation in his space without his knowledge, and regarded them from behind spectacles perched precariously on the tip of his nose. He smiled sheepishly, gesturing broadly that they enter further.

"Hello, Warren, Kurt. Yes, I had forgotten I called you down here. Please, please, take a seat!" His shovel-like hands swept away piles of papers and scrap materials, revealing two stools, now standing nakedly in the fluorescence of the lab lighting. Kurt took a seat politely, Warren remaining standing beside him, wings tucked in at his back to avoid any mishaps, as he had termed them.

"We're ready for whatever you've got, big guy, lay it on us."

Hank nodded, palming through more debris on the table nearest to him until he unearthed whatever it was he sought. He brandished it in front of them, a tiny device — the size and shape of a smartphone — holding it in the center of his palm, eyes excitedly flicking between Kurt's and Warren's own. 

"Are we supposed to know what this is, Hank?"

"Ever since you joined the team, Warren, I have been dually fascinated and disheartened by your wings — namely, how they refuse to be contained neatly, how they restrict your life in what I believe you call 'the real world'." Warren shifted his weight between each leg, eventually settling on taking the other stool, pulling it over with his foot as he sat heavily on it. Clearly, Hank was on one, and they were going to be there for a while. Underneath his cool, disaffected demeanour, Kurt saw it, the ripples of pain, of discomfort, that twitched across his face when Hank mentioned his wings. Kurt's nail scratched against the inside of his palm, a reflex to move overridden by higher faculties.

"Hank, I love you, but you gotta get somewhere here, please."

Hank nodded, continuing at a more brisk pace, "It was clear to me from the day I first met you, Warren, that your situation was affecting you negatively. I see it even now, that you do not — cannot — participate in the mundane world as our other teammates do."

Warren's mood was apparent on his face now. His features tightened towards the point of his birdlike nose — inherited from his mother. His hands found his upper arms, nails digging into the flesh just under the sleeves of his shirt. A wing jerked slightly, a tic of nervousness — or annoyance — just barely suppressed. 

"Where is this going, Hank?"

Kurt found himself struck by the desire to reach for him, to run a hand up and down his arm, to pry his fingers from his flesh and lace them between Kurt's own. His gaze found his hands, and he was thrust once more into the reality of his appearance, his physiology, which would only inspire that same revulsion as in all others, the inevitable disgust that accompanied Kurt's mutation. He scrunched his hand — his  _ claw  _ — into a fist, returning it to the pocket of his jacket — provided courtesy of Warren's credit card.

Hank seemed to have finally caught on to the significantly dropped mood in the room, and hurried his speech along. 

"I have devised a piece of technology —  _ this  _ piece of technology," he said, gesturing once more to the item in his palm, "Which will allow you to…  _ disguise _ your mutations. It is not perfect, however. It operates only on the visual level, distorting light waves as they approach and are reflected from your body. Physically, you will remain as you are, but to anyone observing your person, you will appear to be just another member of the public."

There was silence for a moment as Kurt and Warren took in the immensity of Hank's words. Warren's mind raced, his dreams of nightclubs and shopping and expensive beach vacations flashing before his eyes on triple fast forward. He could live again, he could have all of the things that had been denied of him due to whatever infernal providence had chosen to grant him wings. The smile that had unknowingly imposed itself upon his features faltered as his mind turned to Kurt. Kurt, whose family had been cast out over their son's appearance, who had spent his life homeless and afraid, all because he looked different to others. His gaze found the device before him, and something clicked behind his eyes.

"There's only one."

Hank deflated like the last balloon at a disappointing birthday party.

"Y-es, that is true, there is only one at the moment. I would hope to create more, of course but…" He trailed off, the obvious roadblock to his research rearing before them. Money. Xavier was loaded, yes, but he didn't have the sheer financial capabilities as SHIELD, or Stark. The X-Men were supported by the same funds as the Avengers, the Fantastic Four, yes, but those funds weren't enough. The Four had Richards' patents and grants, and the Avengers had Stark Industries. They had support. The X-Men were a family business, as it were. And there was no money in family, Warren knew that.

"Let Kurt take it. I don't need it. I can figure something else out with the wings."

"W-warren! I would not ask you to do that! I do not have any reason to use this, there is nothing out there for me, I am happy in the mansion, among the others!"

Warren leaned into Kurt, a hand firmly on his shoulder. 

"You listen here. I've had a life, I've had my fun anywhere you can think of and a million other places you can't even fathom. I'm not going to sit here and take something like this out of the hands of someone like you." His voice softened, the sharpness having alarmed even Hank, who normally couldn't pick up on a social cue if it was written down and explained to him. "You deserve a chance to go out and live life how it's meant to be. Take Hank's toy, and go have fun."

Kurt's hand closed around Warren's on his shoulder, "Thank you, my friend. You are too kind."

"I only got one catch," he replied, a wink in his voice and a smile once again on his face.

"What is that?"

"You gotta make sure you come home and tell me all about it, 'kay?"

They laughed together easily — a burgeoning friendship that seemed as though it was as old as time itself — Hank caught awkwardly in their midst. Kurt took the device from him finally, and inspected it. It was the size and shape of a credit card, pure black. 

"How does it work?"

"We can demonstrate now, if you'll stand." Hank gestured to a clear space on the floor, which Kurt made his way carefully towards, unwilling to trample any research Hank might be in the process of completing. He faced them both, the device held in his hand, appearing weary of it, as if it could explode in his face at any moment. 

"The device operates in a field surrounding your body, which it is analyzing as we speak. It will beep once when it is re-" Hank was interrupted by an electronic tone, which startled all but Warren. "When it is ready, which is now. Then, you merely press your thumb into the center of the device, and it should activate. From then, it need not be interfered with. You may leave it in your pocket and go about your day as normal. Once again, I must stress that it only affects you  _ visually _ , and that you will still occupy space as you do normally — if someone shakes your hand, they will feel three fingers, not the five that the field will hopefully display. Enough talking, we must see how it works for ourselves!"

Kurt pressed his thumb into the device as he was instructed, and was disappointed when nothing appeared to happen. He looked up to Warren and Hank, ready to express his deflation at the failure. Hank regarded him with the awestruck grin of a proud parent whose child had just received an accolade from their expensive private school, mouth slightly agape, eyes bright. Warren's expression was different, his open-mouthed stare clearly concealing some deeper, primal urge. He swallowed once, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he looked Kurt up and down.

Hank spoke finally, stuttering, "It- the device- you-"

His unfinished thoughts were interrupted by Warren, who interjected, surprising himself.

"You're hot as fuck. Oh my god."

Kurt balked — beauty had never been an ideal he would have expected to enjoy. Warren caught the look of disbelief, pulling out his phone and snapping a photo of Kurt, turning the screen to him. Kurt jumped slightly, hand raising to his mouth at the sight of his new face. He reached a finger, now pale and accompanied by three others and a thumb, and stroked his image on the screen. His skin was fair, with a slight tan underneath that he likely owed to his mother's Persian heritage. That would certainly account for his hair, which was dark and sprouted thickly from underneath his shirt collar. His hair was black and sat in perfectly tousled waves on his head, a single curl working its way to the center of his forehead. He had a beard — an honest to goodness beard — perfectly shaped, a rich darkness across his cheeks. He smiled at his appearance, a set of pure white teeth shining almost as bright as Warren's.

"I do not know what to say."

"I do. Let's go out!" Warren clapped his hands with excitement, the noise startling Kurt out of his mesmerized state. Kurt's eyes met his, gaze unsteady and a little mournful.

"But Warren… your wings. How will you join me?"

He waved his hands dismissively, "It's fine, I can fold them in and then tie them down, I've done it before."

Hank's eyes widened, expression concerned, "Warren, that must be incredibly painful! You could do serious damage to yourself if you left them bound for too long!"

"Relax, it's all good. I usually just do it for a couple of hours, that's plenty of time to get trashed. I'll be fine. I wouldn't miss his first night out if it killed me."

* * *

Kurt suggested that they invite the others, and so Warren had texted around, with no luck. Ororo and Jean had gone into the city for a girl's night with the band, leaving all the boys home alone. He didn't bother trying Scott, who would be staying sober for the night so he could worry about Jean while she was gone — nor did he call Hank, who claimed some vague intolerance of alcohol that would leave him 'in the hospital or worse' if he joined them. They thus found themselves in the common room, which John and Bobby had monopolized for the afternoon. Warren found them on the couch, Bobby asleep on top of John, snoring gently into one of the couch's back cushions. John had looked them up and down once, and shook his head.

"Sorry guys, Bobby and I are going out tomorrow night."

"Come  _ on _ ," Warren had said, exasperated, "You can go out two nights in a row, it's not going to kill you!"

"Does  _ he  _ look like he's going anywhere tonight?" He had replied, gesturing to Bobby's sleeping form. Warren had rolled his eyes at that, dismissing them as old men as he huffed back to Kurt, who had been stealing glances at the happy couple out of the corner of his eye with a look on his face that hovered somewhere between jealousy and dejection. At that moment, Piotr had walked through the room, carrying with him what seemed like the weight of the entire world across his shoulders. Warren and John's eyes met quickly, John nodding his head surreptitiously towards Piotr, who looked up, appearing to finally notice everyone else.

"Oh, hello everyone, I did not see you all. My head is elsewhere today!" His voice was cheerful, in a way that was so obviously forced that even Warren picked up on it. He grimaced internally, exchanging a glance with Kurt, who nodded once.

"Oh hey, Pete. Me and Kurt are going out tonight, you wanna come with?"

Piotr's eyes moved between them, the words clearly taking some time to register in his mind. He shook his head finally, a sad smile stretching his features.

"I will not, thank you. I am feeling a little sick today, I believe I may have some kind of flu. I am going to eat now and then I think I will sleep early tonight. Thank you for your offer though." 

Warren nodded in reply as Piotr passed through the opposite door that led to the kitchen. Warren and Kurt swapped two troubled looks, before turning to John, who looked concerned.

"I'm gonna text Kyle about him, I didn't like any of that."

John nodded, "Yeah. I've never seen him like that before. Do you think he's okay?"

Kurt chimed in, voice quiet, "I have heard from Jean that there is perhaps some private turmoil which Piotr has not deemed it appropriate to share with us all just yet. She warned me that we should give him space in this time."

Warren paused his typing, looking up to Kurt, "Did she say what?"

"No. Either she did not know, or she did not think it right to share his secret."

Warren resumed typing, firing off three messages to Kyle.

"Either way, Kyle knows how to deal with him better than the rest of us. It'll be fine."

They had retreated to finish getting ready at that point, as Kurt assisted Warren with the binding of his wings. It hadn't looked as painful as he had imagined. Rather, Warren folded his wings into his back as closely as possible, and then affixed a harness of some sort around his chest, which held everything together, allowing him to slip a sweater over it. Kurt was astounded at how effectively it hid his wings from view. Even from behind, one would have to be very close to Warren before they would suspect that anything was amiss.

* * *

And so they had found themselves, alone together, at a bar somewhere off the I-684. It was a dive, a smoky, poorly-lit tavern filled with sullen patrons, each with their eyes firmly on the film floating atop their beers or on the rotting wood of the walls. Warren looked decidedly out of place there, but no one seemed to pay him any mind. Kurt felt right at home, having spent many a night in Munich's less than savoury dens.

"Do you come here often?" he had asked, as he and Warren found a table in a darkened corner. Kurt had been uneasy when they first entered, still getting used to the sensation of not appearing as he felt. On more than one occasion, he had sat on his tail, having forgotten he even had one to begin with. Warren had laughed with him, chest filling with lightness as he watched Kurt open up into the world. 

"I used to come here a lot because nobody pays you any mind. It's a good place to just sit and get drunk and not worry about some guy calling the cops because I've got wings under my jacket, you know?"

"I understand. There were a few — not many — places in Munich where I could be myself." Kurt grinned conspiratorially, "In more ways than one."

Warren rolled his eyes, seemingly impervious to Kurt's vulgar insinuations. 

"I've heard all about what Germans get up to in private, yeah."

"It is not always in private."

Kurt cracked then, façade failing underneath Warren's exasperated gaze. 

"Can I tell you a secret?"

"Of course, I am intrigued already. You share so much private information freely that I can only imagine what you might keep to yourself."

Warren leaned in closely, filling the air between them with a vague cloud of alcoholic breath and expensive cologne.

"I prefer you without Hank's little toy."

Kurt blinked. He wasn't exactly sure how he was supposed to process that piece of information. Part of him was almost angry — he had been enjoying the freedom that his new appearance had granted him, had enjoyed the way it eliminated the need to exist in the shadows. And here was Warren, tearing it down. Yet, there was an undeniable sweetness in his tone, a sympathy which appeared to be reaching towards some deeper meaning, perhaps a hurt disguised beneath his words. Kurt considered Warren, considered that perhaps he had seen in Kurt a compatriot, someone with whom he could share the peripheral existence to which they were subjected by their circumstance.

He reached gently across the table, offering his palm to the hole in the roof above them, and Warren.

"Take my hand, if you would."

Warren slid his palm over Kurt's, eyes locked on the movement of their hands over the stained wood of the table. His brain lurched, confused by the disparity between visual and tactile information. Kurt tickled his wrist with a nail, retracting his hand once more as Warren finally met his eyes.

"I am still the same, under the illusion. You are not alone, if that is what disturbs you."

"You know, I haven't felt alone in a long time, Kurt. A long time. And it kinda kills me sometimes, the way I carry myself, or the way I used to."

"What do you mean?"

Warren swallowed, taking a deep breath. Kurt subconsciously braced himself.

"I used to get lonely. Truly, existentially lonely — at least, as much as you can as a fourteen year old. My parents didn't love me, I knew that much by then. My friends didn't like me, they just liked the money. The maids were paid to be kind to me, as was everyone who worked for us. My life was completely filled with people, and not one of them made a true connection with me." He paused, taking a swig of his beer. Kurt watched the minute shake in his hands as he replaced it unsteadily on the table once more. "After my wings started growing in, I used to sit in my room all day and watch people working out of my window. I used to write letters to imaginary friends, so I could pretend that there was someone out there who cared, someone who missed me, who wondered why I wasn't able to come outside anymore. And then, you know what happened?"

It was Kurt's turn to swallow uneasily. "What?"

"They found me — Xavier, and Hank. Picked me up out of my life and dropped me into this one. Yeah, I lost a lot of my money when my parents cut me off. Hank helped me with investments — enough to mean I'll never work a day in my life, that's for sure. But it was never about the money, Kurt." Warren was drunk. His words slurred into one another, stampeding out of his mouth like concertgoers after the last encore. "It was about friendship, about family, about a  _ home _ .  _ That _ 's what Xavier gave to me," he said, punctuating his words with a jab to the table that rattled both of their glasses, "A  _ home. _ "

Kurt was silent for a moment. Warren was crying, tears spilling silently from his eyes as he was overcome by the sort of sublime emotion only experienced by the inebriated.

"I am glad that you were able to find salvation, my friend."

Warren shook his head, grabbing Kurt's hand.

"You don't get it. That's why I wanted to come get you, back in Germany! I knew it had to be me, Kurt. I was the one who understood you, who understood what you needed. And then we met and you told me your story and  _ oh boy _ did I feel like shit after." He held Kurt's hand to his face, warmth against his cheek. "I used to hurt myself, Kurt, when I lived at home. And, when we met, I realized that you had gone through so much more, and still had come out fighting. You know, by the time we met, I wasn't in that place anymore, that was long in my past. But still, I remembered what it was like to feel like you were alone. So I wanted you to know that you'll never be alone as long as the rest of the X-Men are here, okay? We're your family, Kurt, I promise."

Some part of Kurt's brain was aware that Warren was three sheets to the wind, divulging personal trauma and vomiting emotion between them uncontrollably. The thread of his point had gotten lost in the sentiment, and Kurt wasn’t exactly clear on what he had been trying to convey. None of that mattered to him, as he ran a thumb across Warren's cheek, deciding finally to pull Warren's hand into his own once more, holding it across the table.

"Thank you, my friend. All of you, you are my world. I will never be able to thank you enough for allowing me to be a part of your family."

They were both drunk, crying, spilling out sentiment that had long sat bubbling under the surface of their skin, ready to burst.

Warren eventually sniffed, pulling his hand back to himself, wiping tears out of his eyes as he laughed shakily. They allowed themselves some minutes of silence to calm once more, nervously glancing around the bar. Warren hadn’t been joking — the other patrons hadn’t so much as thrown them an evil eye during their heart to heart. As he scanned the room, looking anywhere but Kurt’s face, Warren spied a pool table in the corner, and inclined his head towards it.

"What's say we lighten the mood, huh? Little friendly competition?"

"I do not think that will be a good idea."

"Come  _ on,  _ Kurt, I can show you how to play. Just let me beat your ass a couple of times, then we can call it a night."

"Warren, I do not think you understand, I do not want to play with you because I am going to beat you so resoundly that you will be upset with me." Warren paused, staring at him incredulously. A grin, cocky and mocking all at once, had broken across Kurt's face as he tried not to laugh at Warren's petty competitive spirit.

“You’re on,” he replied, thrusting a pool cue into his arms.

* * *

After several rounds, an increasingly frustrated Warren finally conceded that he may have underestimated Kurt’s abilities at pool. He smoked him, potting so many in succession that Warren hadn’t had a turn in fifteen minutes. Kurt wasn’t nice about it either. His grin had evolved into a smirk, which was rapidly turning into a wide, toothed smile that just about caught Warren’s breath in his throat. It may have been a secret to all but Jean, but Warren had always had a thing for Kurt — something about the way his eyes and mouth stood out from his skin, something in the way he walked, the sound of his laughter. Part of him wondered if it was problematic, if it counted as fetishisation, if he only liked Kurt because he looked different. The other part of him wished that Ororo hadn’t ever explained that word to him before — patiently, after he had made a comment about an actress in a movie they had all seen. Life had been simpler when he didn’t have to care about other people’s feelings — one of the only things he occasionally missed about being rich.

He was snapped out of his thoughts by the distinctive sound of another ball sinking into a pocket to his left. Kurt shuffled around the table, throwing him another grin as he manoeuvred in front of him to take his shot. Warren felt the grip on his cue tighten as Kurt bent before him, his rear rising to prominence like the proverbial moon. His left foot lifted off the ground for balance, glancing against Warren’s shin. Warren paid it no mind, assuming Kurt was just absorbed in his project of crushing what little competitive spirit Warren possessed. It was only when that same foot began to run up and down that same shin — slowly, unmistakably — that Warren realized what was happening.

_ He’s fucking cruising me. _

His thoughts were interrupted once more by the clink of pool balls against one another, the soft thunk of them as they bounced off of the bright green felt of the table. Kurt straightened, and jerked his head towards them.

“Your turn.” His tone betrayed nothing of what Warren believed to have been happening, to the point that he assumed he must have imagined it. He nodded shakily, standing to take his place at the table. He potted a ball easily, and moved around the table to where Kurt had just been, back to the chair they were swapping between. For a brief second, as he lined up his shot, he looked behind him. Kurt was sitting sprawled in the chair, legs stretched before him, holding the cue in one hand, his other resting gently on his own thigh. He caught Warren’s eye and nodded once, hand slowly moving up and down the upper length of the cue, once. Warren turned back to the table.

They finished the game in silence, Warren scoring two more before Kurt wrangled control again, easily dispatching his final four shots in four turns. He held his hand out to Warren as they laid the cues out on the rack by the wall next to the table, and Warren shook it. 

“Thank you for the games, my friend.”

“I didn’t expect you to be so good at that.”

Another grin, “There is much you do not know about me.”

Warren decided to play along with whatever game Kurt was trying with him. He leaned in, speaking to his ear. His breath ghosted warm across Kurt’s skin, sending a tiny shiver up and down his spine.

“I’d love to find out some time.”

Kurt chuckled at that, patting Warren on the shoulder. He was confused. Perhaps he had read the room incorrectly, misjudged what had been going on between them. Kurt inclined his head to the door.

“I am ready to go home, if you are?”

* * *

Their trip home was uneventful — the car able to drive itself with a direct uplink to the Cerebro network. The bar wasn’t far from the mansion, maybe a twenty minute drive at that time of night. The lights were off for the most part, and so they were quiet as they entered. That hadn’t been difficult, as they hadn’t shared a word between them since the bar. The silence wasn’t pointed, nor was it awkward. Merely, it was present. Kurt made for the stairs at the first opportunity, Warren stopping at the bottom.

“I’m gonna grab some water, alright?”

Kurt nodded, and continued up the stairs. He had left his disguise on for some reason, and Warren was struck by how odd he looked, climbing the stairs on foot, without the use of his abilities. He plodded uneasily down the hallway to the kitchen, a sliver of light on the opposite wall from the door his only indication of the way in the darkened hallway. He pushed open the door, entering to find John and Bobby once more. How, in a house of nearly forty people, was it always those two crossing his path? John sat on the counter, Bobby standing in between his legs, arms bracketing his thighs. They appeared to be sharing a pint of ice cream, laughing and giggling like schoolgirls. It was nauseating. John turned his head, regarding Warren easily, as Bobby spoke.

“Welcome home, Cinderella. Did you have fun at the ball? Did your prince turn back into a beast?”

“Those are two different movies, Bobby. And don’t call him a beast.”

Bobby rolled his eyes. Warren stood facing him, arms folded, face stern.

“I mean it, Bobby. He’s had enough of that before, he doesn’t need it from now on, you hear me?”

Bobby startled, catching the venom in Warren’s tone, and grimaced, hands held out in acquiescence. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

Warren sighed heavily, moving to the fridge to grab his water bottle.

“I know. It’s alright. Just… you know, don’t say shit like that where he might hear it, okay?”

Bobby nodded. John caught his eye from above, expression puzzled. Bobby shrugged at him, eyes on Warren's back as he rummaged through the fridge. 

“Did he have a good night?” John asked, voice even. He had taken an interest in Kurt, making it a point to include him in the students’ ability instruction courses throughout the semester. John had said it was because Kurt had demonstrated a keen understanding of his own powers and their capabilities and limitations, but there had been something else underneath it. Warren had understood implicitly — it was the same feeling which had motivated him to locate Kurt in Munich in the first place.

“I think so. He seemed happy with Hank’s prototype.”

“You don’t sound too happy with it yourself.”

Warren sighed, running his hand through his hair.

“You picked up on that, huh?”

“You think he’s gonna become reliant on it.”

“I just don’t want him to think that he still has to hide, you know?”

John shrugged, “The choice is his in the end, Warren.”

“Yeah, I know. I just… I dunno. I’m drunk. I’m going to bed.”

He stalked out, leaving Bobby and John to share a glance. Bobby kissed him once, smile pleasant on his face as he stared into his eyes.

“How are you so smart?”

“Because I went to college, sweetheart. Now give me back that spoon, we’re not done here.”

* * *

Warren wasn't actually at all surprised when he arrived to his room to find Kurt sprawled out on his bed. He was rather more disturbed at the fact that he had apparently forgotten his clothes on the journey. He laid across the bedspread in his underwear, a single shaft of moonlight falling so delicately across his chest that it must have been coordinated. In his hands he was swirling the device, which was still active. Warren wondered privately if the swarthy chest hair was provided by the illusion, or if it was model's own. 

"Finally, you are back."

Warren placed his water bottle on the bedside table and stood to regard Kurt, blocking out the moonlight. Kurt glanced at him from between his own legs, waiting on a response.

"Yeah. Didn't think you'd be here, though."

Kurt looked puzzled, "Was it not our plan to — how does one say it in America —  _ hook-up _ ?"

Warren choked on a half-formed word in his throat, face incredulous. Kurt winced, clearly fearful that he had completely misread a situation.

"Hold on… you mean to tell me that you  _ were _ hitting on me at the bar?"

"Was this not obvious? Have you never picked up a man in a bar before?"

Warren's face fell into a pout, "No. I haven't, actually." Kurt took a moment to reply, distracted briefly by how cute Warren looked with his bottom lip tucked out.

"Well, you seemed to be following along fairly easily… I just assumed that you knew what was happening." A pause as Kurt swept himself onto his knees, bringing him to eye level with Warren, "Do you not want to? I can leave, and we may forget about all of this."

They stared at one another for a long moment in the half-light, Kurt reaching forward to undo his shirt buttons, pushing aside the fabric to expose his chest to the night. The sensation of Kurt's nail against his skin sent a thrill through his wings, rustling feathers and raising hairs on the back of his neck. Warren reached back, a strong arm pulling Kurt's towards him.

"Of course I do. But on one condition," he replied finally, retrieving the device from Kurt, "We switch this guy off."

Kurt leaned into him, whispering gently into his ear as his hands worked Warren's belt, holding him upright as he stepped out of his trousers, "I have been waiting for you to do that all night, my darling."

Warren pressed his thumb into the device, holding it there for the requisite three seconds. It beeped once, and the illusion was gone. Kurt was before him once more —  _ his  _ Kurt. Warren ran a hand through his hair, bringing his palm down across his face. His thumb found its way between Kurt's lips, dragging his mouth open with the barest force. Warren brought his own mouth close, lips millimeters from Kurt's, and spoke to him.

"You are the most beautiful man I've ever laid eyes on, you understand me? You don't need that thing when you're with me, okay?"

There was a brief pause as a grin spread itself wide across Kurt's face, arms pulling Warren close into a hug. Their chests met in a spread of warmth between them, and Warren sighed, content, as Kurt moved to speak to the skin of his neck.

"Warren, you are a sweet man, and I appreciate your sentiment." His voice dropped in pitch, hand closing around Warren inside of his shorts, "But I do not want sentiment tonight, do you understand me?"

Warren gasped at the sensation, a sudden intake of breath that Kurt seized to crash their lips together. Warren moaned around his tongue, clenching his hand tight in his hair as his other hand gripped around his hip. Eventually, he pulled them apart, Kurt breathing heavily, craning his neck forward to bring his mouth back to Warren's, who held him away. He looked up at him through heavy eyelids, mouth open as Warren spoke gently, the thumb at his hip pressing on a pressure point, drawing out another moan.

"What do you wanna do tonight? You wanna be on top, or?"

"For tonight, I am yours. I prepared while you were busy."

"That was quick."

"You were gone longer than you thought."

Warren smirked, easing the pressure off Kurt's head, bringing it forward slightly, but pausing before he could make contact. Kurt stretched his tongue out, just barely grazing the skin of Warren's throat, trailing a soft wetness from his jaw to his Adam's apple.

"Just for tonight?" he asked, his sultry tone disguising his endearing self-consciousness.

"There can be many more, if you wish."

"And if I wanna let you be in charge, sometimes?"

Kurt's voice was a disembodied growl in the dark, animal lust having almost completely clogged his brain, "That is all the better, my darling."

They lost themselves in a tangle of sheets and limbs. The moon traced a course from one pane of glass to the next, marking the slow passage of time with a creeping white caress across Warren's back. His wings spread wide as he finished — an involuntary reflex he had never quite been able to get under control — and he relaxed into Kurt's form beneath him. His face slumped into the space between his partner's and the bed underneath them, heaving panting breaths into his ear. One of Kurt's hands travelled up and down his back, drawing forth those same shivers, eliciting a giggle from Warren. He pulled his head up with great effort, meeting Kurt's eyes, heavy-lidded and glassy with exertion.

"Was that okay, for you?"

Kurt chuckled once — a difficult feat with the weight of Warren's body bearing down upon him — and nodded, "It was adequate, yes."

" _ Adequate _ ?" Warren's tone was indignant, but he laughed all the same, Kurt joining him.

"I am joking, please." Kurt reached up to caress Warren's face, a talon sweeping his cheekbone, "I enjoyed myself, thank you."

"I feel like there's a but in there somewhere."

"I would like if you could get off me, that is all. You are very beautiful, but heavy all the same, angel."

Warren rolled his eyes, and rolled off. Due to his wings, he could only lay comfortably on his front or back. Kurt sat up as he adjusted himself, inserting his body back into his arms once he settled. Warren curled an arm around his front, his thumb drawing a line across his collarbone. Kurt's own hand drew spiralling patterns into the skin of Warren's bare thigh, finally settling into a grip around his knee as they both stilled.

"Do you want to talk about this now, or wait until the morning when we're sober?"

"We should wait, I think."

Warren shrugged, "Suit yourself. You can stay here tonight, I'm not gonna kick you out."

"I am glad, because it would not be much trouble to find my way back inside, and there would be little that you could do to stop me, if I so wished."

"Shut up and go to sleep."

Kurt reached upwards, slapping the side of his head gently in admonition. Warren sighed, kissing his temple once, shifting his arm so it sat across his waist, hand curled ever so slightly around his hip. Kurt placed his own over it, fingers interlaced between. They each heaved one tired breath, and were still.

* * *

Kurt woke before him that morning, to find that they had swapped positions in their sleep. He was on his back, fingers tight in Warren's hair and tracing lightly across his upper shoulders. Warren laid on top of him, chest across his abdomen, head above his heart, body between his legs. He slept soundly, far from waking, deep breaths rising and falling regularly. Every so often, one of his wings would twitch. Perhaps he was dreaming of flying, his body responding as would a dog's to the subconscious action. Kurt's own mind raced. He hadn't drank as much as he thought last night, and so had been surprised by his boldness in engaging with Warren. No less surprising was the reciprocation, which he had feared could have been less enthusiastic than what he received. He wondered if they would continue, if this would be a one-off.

Warren woke eventually, nuzzling his face into the warmth of Kurt's stomach where his head had laid for some time. Kurt had dozed in the meantime, fingers knotted in his hair, unmoving. It took Warren's brain a moment to recall the evening, replaying the events in reverse, starting with their bodies twined under the sheets, and ending with them entering the bar. His eyes shot open, body tensing as he pushed himself up onto his arms. Kurt was asleep still, thankfully. Warren was still for a moment, mind nervously attempting to comprehend the situation, while also battling the desire to sweep Kurt back into his arms and start all over again. So preoccupied as he was, he failed to notice Kurt's eyes opening, his slow blinking as his gaze met Warren's.

"Morning."

Warren swallowed hard, "Good morning."

"You look distraught. Was I that incompetent last night?" Kurt grinned at him, clearly attempting to lighten the mood, but it had the opposite effect on Warren, as it only solidified in his mind what they had done.

"No! Of course not! You were great."

"It was a joke, Warren."

"I knew that."

Kurt's hand traced up and down Warren's arm, imploring him to lie down once more.

"Please, relax, we may speak about it now, but you must calm yourself."

Warren nodded, allowing himself to be pulled once more into Kurt's embrace. He laid his cheek across his stomach, eyes staring wide at the wall across from them. 

"Did I take advantage of you last night?"

"No. Neither of us were drunk enough for that to happen Warren, I am sure you remember."

"I do, I was just making sure you remembered it the same way. I've been wrong before, in both directions."

"No. If anything, I was the one who initiated things."

"Okay. And it was okay?"

"I enjoyed myself. Did you?"

Warren laughed in spite of himself, "To the point that thinking about it makes me wanna go again."

"Perhaps after this conversation?"

"Perhaps."

Kurt chuckled, ruffling his hair gently.

"And what about now, Warren? Have we destroyed our friendship? Must we now live with an awkward distance between us, pointed and jagged?"

"No, course not!"

"So what is the problem?"

"The problem is that I think I want more than just fucking, Kurt."

A sound of realization escaped from Kurt, his hand moving across Warren's neck, gripping to bring their eyes together.

"Finally, we have found the root of your unease."

"Don't mock me, please. This is the first time I've ever had to deal with these sorts of feelings." That wasn't strictly true, of course. Warren had felt that same pull before, for another. A boy in his class in high school. Warren had been ready to make a move, ready to confess, right before his wings grew in. Xavier had speculated that the psychic trauma of young love may have been the trigger which caused his mutation to manifest — a notion which had not been as comforting or interesting to Warren as it may have been to his Professor. 

Kurt swallowed, moving to cup Warren's face in his hands.

"I was not mocking you, I promise. Are you saying you wish to be with me, in some capacity?"

Warren's hand moved to Kurt's wrist, pulling it away so they could join their hands together.

"I think about you a lot, Kurt."

"The feeling is mutual."

"Would you be with me? Even just to try it out?"

"I am willing if you are, angel."

"Kiss me."

He did. Their lips met softly, bodies embracing as they wound themselves into the sheets once more. Before things could progress any further, Warren's phone started to ring on the bedside table. His hand shot out to grab it, bringing it to his ear as Kurt moved down to run his mouth along his neck.

"Bobby, what do you want?"

_ "Come to brunch with us, we're going into the city to meet with the girls." _

"Ugh. Hold on a second."

He hit mute on the call, tilting his head down to speak to Kurt, who had his mouth clamped around a chunk of Warren's chest.

"You wanna go to brunch?"

Kurt contemplated for a moment, finally breaking off with a wet sound, and nodding.

"I would not mind."

Warren nodded, returning to his call.

_ "Was that Kurt?" _

Warren's face went white, grip on his phone tightening.

"Was what Kurt?"

_ "You didn't mute the call, dumbass. I heard Kurt's voice. Are you with him now?" _

"Y-yeah, we're in the kitchen."

_ "No you're not." _

"Yes we are."

_ "So where are you hiding, then? Because I can't see you, unless you're in my box of cereal." _

Warren cursed himself silently.

"Fine, Kurt's here, yes, whatever. Keep this to yourself, Bobby, I'm warning you."

_ "Whatever. We're leaving in an hour." _

"Okay."

_ "Oh, and Warren?" _

"What?"

_ "I wasn't in the kitchen." _

The call ended before Warren could curse him out. He placed the phone on the table once more, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as he sighed. Kurt's voice trailed lazily up to him from his abdomen, where he was sucking a bruise above his hip.

"I see Bobby has found out about our night together."

"And if he knows, so does John."

"I am not concerned. This house has ears, Warren, nothing stays secret for long."

"I know, I know. I was hoping we'd get a little longer than fifteen seconds to decide how we were going to tell everyone, but I guess this works."

"We should shower soon, if we are to leave shortly."

"Yeah, it could take a while, what with the two of us."

Kurt's finger trailed upwards, stroking a slow circle into Warren's cheek.

"We could always shower together."

Warren's mouth opened to reply, and then shut again. He paused for a moment, and nodded.

"You know what? You're absolutely right."

"I will see you in there," Kurt replied, disappearing in a cloud of smoke with one final kiss.

* * *

Brunch was uneventful, with Jean, Ororo and the band hungover to the point of silence. There was a single moment, as Bobby made a veiled joke about what had happened between Kurt and Warren, that Warren watched Jean's eyes widen, and flit between them. Warren tilted his head, expression warning, and she nodded once, gesturing with her hands that their secret was safe. His foot collided with Bobby’s knee under the table, as Jean poked her voice into his head.

**But I want details, Warren.**

**There’s nothing to detail. We were drunk, we both wanted it, that’s it.**

**Alright, alright. I’ll leave you be.**

And for the most part, they were left to their own devices. Superhero gigs were slow that spring, and so Warren had little else to do than spend time with Kurt. He had signed on as a trainee counselor, under Jean’s tuition, and dealt often with cases of students whose mutant powers rendered them similarly outcast from society. He was sympathetic, and able to offer practical advice for living with visible mutation. The kids loved him. Warren was proud, in a strange way, of how far he had come. He took him shopping one week, and they bought him an entire wardrobe, once again on Warren’s cards. Kurt had protested, unwilling to allow Warren to spend that much money on him, or anyone else for that matter.

“Let me show you something, hold on,” he had replied, pulling his phone out of his pocket and calling up his banking app, flashing the screen to Kurt, whose eyes bulged at the digits.

“How?”

“It’s all Hank. He knows the stock markets like the back of his hand, it’s incredible. How do you think Xavier is able to house and feed all of us? Do you know how much we spend on protein powder alone in a month?”

“Well then, I suppose I can allow you… this once.”

Some time later, Kurt pulled yet another sweater off, flopping down onto the bed where Warren laid, heaving an exasperated sigh.

“Warren, I cannot try on any more clothing. I am sure they all fit, it will be fine.”

He rolled his eyes in response, patting Kurt’s chest.

“Fine. Although I gotta say, I could watch you take your clothes off all day.”

“Yes, well, perhaps some other day.”

“You don’t wanna… you know?” he inquired, folding Kurt’s sweaters and placing them among the myriad articles of clothing that now filled his closet and drawers.

Kurt raised his arm from the bed, waving it from side to side, his other laid across his eyes, “Not tonight, I don’t think. I do not feel very well.”

“You got a fever?”

Kurt sighed, and something in his voice gave Warren pause. He knelt on the mattress, prying Kurt’s arm away, his own snaking up his stomach.

“What’s up, Kurt?”

Kurt pulled Warren down to him, wrapping his arms around his waist.

“I am just missing home, that is all.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. Yeah it’s been what, three months since you left?”

“It will be three on Tuesday, yes. And there is something else.”

“Oh no.”

“It is not about you, Warren, or us.”

Warren relaxed, urging Kurt on with a nod.

“It was my mother’s birthday yesterday. It has been twelve years now since we last celebrated it with her.”

Warren laid over him fully then, pulling his head down to sit under his chin. He kissed his hair once, speaking to it, slightly muffled.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“It is okay. I just miss her, that is all.”

Warren held him for a long time in silence, Kurt working his arms around him in return. They rolled over, Warren on his back, and let time pass around them. Eventually, Warren's watch beeped, an alarm to remind him of the supplementary class he had scheduled with some of his students.

"Kurt, I gotta go, I'm sorry."

"It is okay, I did not realize you had class today."

"I'm taking out some of the kids for the afternoon, into the forest. I wanna give them some extra help with their mutations."

Kurt regarded him for a moment, eyes puzzling out some obscured thought as his finger ghosted ever so slightly across his lips.

"You have changed."

"What do you mean?" There was no hostility in his tone — rather, he seemed to understand implicitly that Kurt implied a change for the better.

"Your friends, they have told me of how you used to behave — your selfishness, your brash attitude, your occasional bouts of unkindness. Never in mean spirits, you understand," he added, catching how Warren's face fell, "Merely that you were raised in a particular environment which would lead one to behave that way."

"Right. Spoiled little rich kid, yeah. I'm aware."

"Exactly. And I inquired recently with Jean, I asked her — 'Why do you all speak of Warren in that way? He does not seem to behave like that'. And she replied to me, telling me that it was only recently that you had changed, and that she had wondered herself what had happened."

They had stood by this point, Warren pulling on his X-Men uniform over himself as Kurt fixed his clothes where they had rumpled from their lying down.

"Tell you the truth, Kurt, I don't know what it was that changed. All I know is, I'm trying to be better lately."

Kurt reached on his toes to kiss him, a hand warm on his arm, "You are succeeding."

Warren snaked his arms around Kurt's back once more, pressing him close, "Meet me on the roof this evening, okay? I'll bring some beers and a blanket and we can watch the stars come out. I do it all the time — only now I don't need to be alone."

"That is terribly romantic of you."

"Yeah, well, I like you, alright?"

"I like you too," he replied, patting the small of Warren's back, "Go to your class, I will see you this evening."

Warren departed, leaving Kurt to organize his closet as best he could, having never owned so many varied articles of clothing in his life. Warren had supplied him with underwear also, but had elected not to show him beforehand what he had purchased. As such, Kurt was left fearful, unwilling to open the drawer lest he be shocked by what he found within. He bundled Warren's discarded sweater into his arms — the man refused to pick up after himself, a habit from his childhood that Kurt would soon remove — and held it close to him, inhaling deeply the scent of cedarwood and sky that perfumed every article of Warren's clothing — as well as Kurt's sheets.

"Thank you, Warren."

* * *

Later, as the sun went down, Kurt made his way to the roof, arriving there before Warren. He stood there for a while, observing the swaying tips of the pine trees that lined the property, taking in the stillness of the chilly atmosphere. He watched the jet come down — piloted by Vulcan, apparently a member of another vigilante team of mutants, based in Britain — waving to Kyle as it lowered past his eyeline. It was then that Warren appeared, a blanket rolled up underneath his arm, beers noticeably absent from his person.

"Shit! I left them on the kitchen counter," he had explained, when Kurt asked.

"It is fine, we don't need them."

"Are you sure?"

"I am okay."

He turned as Warren laid out the blanket, struggling to flatten it completely, tossed as it was by the breeze. He could hear voices below them, and peered over the edge of the roof to observe Piotr and Kyle, as they sat together on the rocking chair on the porch. His eyes widened as they kissed, turning to Warren.

"Our friend, Piotr, he appears to have reconciled with Kyle."

Warren's head tilted to regard him from where he had laid on the now-straightened blanket, foot nudging at his backside.

"Hey, don't be nosy! C'mere, let them have their moment."

Kurt's eyes rolled, but he made his way back to Warren's side all the same, laying across him, head on his stomach. Warren's hand shifted from behind his head, settling gently across Kurt's throat, fingers reaching to stroke along his cheekbone.

"I am happy for them."

"Me too, Kurt."

"I would be even happier if you went downstairs and brought us those beers that you forgot when we came up here."

"Kurt, you can teleport, why don't you just do it?"

"It is the principle, my darling."

"I should have left you in Munich."

Warren did eventually sit up — with much grumbling and protesting — and traipse downstairs to get the six pack that still miraculously sat unmolested where he left it. He rejoined Kurt on their blanket again, and they let time pass around them once more, tracing the passage of the stars across the velvet sky. Eventually, Kurt spoke in a soft voice, mind clearly elsewhere.

"Sometimes I wonder about my parents, if they are thinking of me, wherever they are in the beyond."

"I think they would be, don't you? Isn't that what parents do?" Warren wanted to add  _ 'not that I would know _ ', but chose not to — this was Kurt's moment, not his.

"I think so."

"Maybe they're up there with the angels having a big party because no one is poor in Heaven… or something." He trailed off at the end, suddenly unsure of where to take his words. Kurt chuckled where he lay, head in the crook of Warren's neck, arm across his chest.

"And here I lay with my own angel. How fitting."

"You know, I didn't even think of it that way."

"Thank you, Warren, for everything," he said, a kiss above Warren's heart. His mind startled at Warren's reaction, as his body tensed, hand moving slightly away from his body.

"What is wrong? Did I do something?"

Warren motioned for them to sit up, meeting his eyes, expression as serious as Kurt had ever seen it.

"Kurt, are you with me because you feel like you owe me something? I just need to know."

Kurt softened, hand reaching to cup Warren's face in his hand. He kissed his lower lip where it stuck out in his signature defeated pout, smiling against his lips.

"My darling, I am with you because you are among the most beautiful sights I have ever beheld in my short time on this planet. I am with you because you are very sweet to me and to others and it makes me happy to lie with you when we sleep. That is all."

Warren heaved a sigh of relief, slumping against Kurt where they sat, forehead resting on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry. I had to ask. I didn't want you to feel like you had to play along so you could 'pay me back', or something stupid. You don't owe me anything — everything I've given you has been because I wanted to. And let's not pretend like you don't give me stuff too, okay? I value you being with me more than I value the numbers in my account, you understand me?"

Kurt nodded, voice strained under a blanket of emotion, "I understand."

Warren pulled him close, pressing Kurt's hand to the center of his chest, "For what it's worth, I'm with you for all the same reasons that you said. I know the world hasn't been kind to you for your appearance, but for me, I think you look perfect. I wouldn't change you for anything, Kurt."

"See, there you go, sweet to me. My angel."

They held one another as evening faded into night, as the air grew cold around them. Eventually they retreated to Warren's room, where Kurt was pulled close once more, their faces illuminated by the moon as it weaved in and out of the clouds.

"Stay here tonight, please?"

"Of course."

"And tomorrow, and the day after. Stay, with me?"

"Yes."

Warren took him to bed, allowed himself to be cradled in his lover's arms as they drifted together into dreaming. The last thing he heard as he drifted off was Kurt's voice, trailing down from above as he whispered Warren's name in the dark, voice brimming with some undefined emotion. Warren fell asleep with a smile on his face, and a lightness in his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it! Thanks for reading always.
> 
> If you enjoyed it, bookmark, subscribe, kudos, comment, whatever you must to let me know.
> 
> Otherwise, work begins now on Cadence (finally, feels like I've been talking about this for years now), which will be released soon.
> 
> See you soon, love your hair hope you win.

**Author's Note:**

> That's it for now!
> 
> Join me Saturday for the thrilling conclusion to the story.
> 
> As always, like, subscribe, bookmark, comment, do whatever you need to!
> 
> Follow me on Twitter @ gun_jumper if you wanna keep up with me at all.


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